


shades of hate

by Withpetals_withblood



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9847988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withpetals_withblood/pseuds/Withpetals_withblood
Summary: Joseph Kavinsky made it easy to hate him. He was born to be hated.Ronan just doesn't know what kind of hate this is.





	

Ronan hated him, except he didn't. It was a struggle, really. Balancing the outward hate and the pain in the chest, because Joseph Kavinsky was born to be hated, and Ronan had no problem being another check mark on his list of _haters_ so to speak. But everything was more complicated than that. Ronan hated K like he hated drinking and driving fast and being cruel - he hated it as much as he enjoyed it. The constant understanding that he should make better decisions came with the knowledge that Ronan Lynch was an expert at fucking up.

Kavinsky gave fucking up a destination. 

Ronan hated him, because he was easy to hate. Everything else that came with that would be left unsaid.  
Ronan wasn't allowed to do anything else except hate him anyway.

"You look good," K said. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs, gaze unashamedly climbing Ronan's bare upper half. "Dick know where you are tonight?"

"Does it matter?" Ronan leaned against the plain dresser next to the open bathroom door. For once, the Kavinsky mansion was quiet. The rest of the pack was wandering the streets looking for trouble, and K was here, looking at Ronan. "I'm here, you're here. The end."

"You can try not to be an asshole all the time," K snorted. "It would suit you."

"Wouldn't suit this." Ronan waved his hand between the two of them.

"What? Being _boyfriends_?" Kavinsky tipped his head back to laugh. "God, grow up, Lynch. I'm talking about you admitting you want to be here. Fuck, chill out."

Ronan's jaw tightened. 

"Or don't," K chirped. His dark eyes rolled. Ronan liked the way they looked tonight, bright and alive, a testament to Kavinsky's rare sobriety. The bags under his eyes had lessened, but still appeared hollow. Ronan made a note to mention food. K glanced at him, sharp gaze a light in the darkness. "I'll keep your secret, Ronan. Don't worry."

"No one would believe you anyway."

"I'm talking about me, not the dreams."

Quiet occupied the space left behind. Ronan felt it crawl over his skin, tiny pin pricks. _I see you_ it said. _I see your want._ Ronan didn't want to want, but it festered in him. It built under his skin. His bones splintered under the weight of it. He fractured when it turned its attention to him, when it prodded his back and sent him stepping forward, until he was standing in front of Kavinsky, waiting.

"What's it like?" K asked. His fingertips ran up Ronan's leg, a familiar movement. 

Ronan tilted his head, questioning. 

"Having everything you want." K clarified. He looked up and offered a grating smile, pained in a way that almost made Ronan feel bad. Almost.

"I don't," Ronan said. 

K hummed, unimpressed. "We doin' this or not?" 

"I'm here aren't I?"

Kavinsky's temple rested against Ronan's bare stomach. His hands gripped the outside of his thighs, and his breath tumbled against the button on Ronan's jeans. It was an intimate gesture - one that wasn't usually allowed. They didn't do things like this. Kavinsky didn't hold onto Ronan. Ronan wasn't gentle with him, but it felt good to touch the back of K's head, to run his fingers through dark hair and draw patterns on the back of his neck with his fingertips. Something about it, the quiet, the caution, made the situation seem surreal. Dreamlike. 

K rolled his head back and forth. He pulled until Ronan stepped closer, and wrapped his hands around the back of Ronan's thighs, urging him forward. It was Kavinsky's mouth on his hipbone, his teeth worrying the tight skin next to Ronan's belly button, his tongue soothing across new hickeys and muted leftover marks from days ago. Ronan held the back of his head and tried to steady his breathing.

It was hard to hate Kavinsky like this. It was hard to hold onto it - the brittle hatred, the disgust.  
The truth was, Ronan wasn't disgusted. 

A dark blush lit Ronan's cheeks and he swayed forward, tracing K's cheek, his jaw, the shell of his ear.

They had never done this before, but Ronan didn't have the courage or strength to stop it. It was always fast. It was always messy and desperate and angry, because that's what they were as a whole, two opposing forces colliding recklessly and seamlessly. But this time Kavinsky was kissing his stomach and Ronan was letting him.

This time Ronan wanted to kiss K's stomach too and call him Joey and not tell anyone, ever.

Ronan felt the sharp nudge of K's chin below his naval. When he glanced down, he was met with K's dark, sharp eyes, his black lashes and tan skin. 

K licked his lips and said, "We won't tell anyone."

This wasn't allowed, but Ronan nodded anyway. The pain in his chest had bloomed and unfurled, warm and full. He wanted and wanted and wanted. 

Ronan assumed hate came in different shades. This just had to be a new one.

K scooted back on the bed and Ronan followed, crawling on his hands and knees until K grabbed his face and pulled their lips together. Until it was open, raw kissing, the kind they never acknowledged, the kind that was usually ruined by a sharp bite. But this time they let it happen, the kissing that made Ronan's stomach tighten, the kissing that involved the wet stroke of tongues and stunted breath, soft moans in the back of K's throat and Ronan's hand curled around his jaw. 

Ronan reminded himself that he needed to hate Joseph Kavinsky. It went unnoticed. 

K broke the kiss to catch his breath. Ronan pushed his jaw until K's head tipped back against the bed, neck exposed for Ronan's teeth and tongue. 

"Fuck," K rasped. He tugged Ronan's thumb to his mouth and let it curl over his bottom teeth, tongue lazily stroking. "You taste like gasoline."

 _You taste like smoke._ But Ronan didn't say it, because if he said it, he'd be admitting he liked it. Instead, he crept lower, mouthing at the column of K's throat, his shoulder, the collar of his shirt. "Off," he snapped, pushing K's t-shirt up until it was discarded. "We're getting food after this," Ronan added. His palms skidded along K's ribcage, the lines of his stomach, pronounced jut of his hipbones. "Fuckin' coke is eating you away."

"Something needs to," K mumbled. He felt along Ronan's shoulders, hands languid and soft. 

_I will_ , Ronan thought. He chewed on K's hipbone until his waist lifted off the bed, accompanied by a breathy, strangled moan. Ronan hadn't heard that noise before. He wanted to hear it again and again, unfiltered and sore, the kind K would never let slip at a substance party or if the house wasn't empty. He bit down on the other, gnawing until K pawed at his forehead. 

"I can feel that in my legs," K blurted. "No one's ever done -" His words were chased off by Ronan's mouth, hot on his stomach, over his briefs. 

Ronan heard him swallow hard. His legs shifted apart, making room for Ronan to lie between them. They'd done this before, but differently. Ronan had pushed Kavinsky's boxers down. He'd wrapped his lips around K's cock and choked. But he'd never taken his time, nosed at Kavinsky's bare leg, kissed the place where his thigh met his pelvis, lifted K's thigh over his shoulder and made it wet, made it good. 

Not that it was ever _bad_. Ronan didn't bother fucking if it wasn't good. But he'd never wanted to hear K's breath stutter. He'd never wanted K to grip the nape of his neck, or gasp, or say _fuck, Ronan, that's it_. And even if he'd wanted to, it wasn't allowed.

But K's thumb stroked his neck. His heel dug into Ronan's back and he bit his lip, looking odd and poised with his head thrown back against white sheets.

"Here, here," K stammered. He swatted the bed next to Ronan's arm, where his hand was wrapped securely over K's hip. A small tube landed there. "C'mon."

The first time they'd done this, they'd fought. It was late, after a race. The other boys were gone, but K had stayed behind to bother Ronan. It started with sarcasm, then yelling, a fist landing on K's cheek, and Ronan helping him up after. A cigarette later, K's mouth was on Ronan's. Two days later K's mouth was on Ronan's cock. A week after that Ronan bent him over the hood of the BMW. Everything went downhill.

Now Ronan was kissing Kavinsky's inner thigh as he twisted two fingers inside him. He was watching Kavinsky's hips jump, his mouth open and trembling. He caught himself thinking _he's handsome like this_ and pushed the thought far, far away. 

When K moaned his name, Ronan questioned whether he was awake or asleep, because he'd heard that before in his dreams. Sighed and soft, like it didn't belong in K's mouth. Like it couldn't possibly come from him. But it had and it did, then and now. Ronan curled his fingers deep and lifted himself up, lips hovering over K's quivering mouth. He couldn't help but think of every party. Every time K had looked at him over the top of his ridiculous white sunglasses, every time he'd pulled Proko onto his lap and grinned at Ronan from the backseat of an Escalade. 

They were creatures made up of opportunities and defined by bravado. 

This, K's brows furrowing and his jaw going slack and his winded plea _shit, Ro, okay, stop, stop_ in a tone that Ronan had never heard, in a bed they'd shared countless times, proved it.

For once Kavinsky wasn't spitting insults about Gansey or Adam.  
For once Ronan wasn't grabbing K by the throat and shoving him against the wall.  
For once they were allowing it - both of them. 

"Let me ride you," K mumbled.

Ronan didn't protest. He let K shove him onto his back, let him straddle his hips and look down at him, face flushed, mouth bitten and swollen. He gripped K's waist when he sank down, watched K's lashes flutter and a wince cross his face. It was hard, not giving in. Not running his hands up K's chest, not choking out his name, calling him _Joey_ and telling him he looked fucking beautiful like this. Just like this. With Ronan inside him and his palms on Ronan's chest, wrecked and shaking, not spun out on dream drugs, but high on pleasure and feelings.

Feelings. 

Ronan made sure to tuck that thought away for later. Or never.

It was hard and slow. K's stomach rolled, his hips arching up and pushing down, grinding their bodies together. It was quiet but for the sound of their breathing, K's bitten moans and Ronan groaning deep in his throat. He watched K, trying to keep his breaths steady, pressing up when K grinded down. 

Ronan had never done this before. He'd fucked but never like this. Not once.

He sat up and Kavinsky's legs slid further around him. His lean arms folded over Ronan's shoulders, fingernails digging into his back. Everything was closer. Ronan's chest against K's, listening to him breathe, feeling his muscles flex time and time again. He buried his face in K's throat, bit and sucked and kissed, let his hips move quicker, let K say his name, and quietly said, "Fuck, Joey, come on," against K's jaw. "I'm not gonna last like this."

It was true. Ronan was so close it burned in him.

"No one's stopping you," K gritted.

Ronan didn't want to say _I want to make you come first_ but that was the truth. He pushed K back on the bed and tugged on his legs, lining up and pushing back in, fucking him hard and fast. Somehow it wasn't rough. Somehow it was Ronan's hand on K's chest, holding him down, and K's fingers clutching his wrist like a lifeline. Somehow it was Ronan kissing K's knee and watching K throw his head back when he finally came, spurting long lines of white on his stomach between them.

Somehow it was Ronan letting himself fall onto his hands next to K's shoulders and kissing him deep when he came, all wet breath and shaking bodies, K's nails in his back and his gaze, focused on Ronan's face, watching him come. 

After, they looked at each other for too long. Ronan caught the distinct look of shared curiosity, mingling with regret.

They crossed a line, and they both knew it. Now they could't go back.

"Never again," Ronan said. He kissed K once, a lingering, breathless kiss.

K tilted his cheek against the bed and swallowed. He nodded. "Yeah, I hear you, Lynch. Never again."

Ronan didn't wait for his body to stop spiraling or his head to stop spinning. He got dressed, dragged his fingers across K's shin as he walked past the bed, and left. 

Ronan Lynch hated Joseph Kavinsky. It was easy and it came naturally.

Kavinsky was born to be hated.

Ronan showed up the next day and said, "We don't talk about this, Joey. Not to anyone. You hear me?"

Kavinsky smiled, fond and surprised. "Sure, Ronan." He pulled him by the belt loops, and tossed the words _get out_ over his shoulder. The pack left. "You still owe me food," he added.

Ronan tilted his head. An uninvited smile crossed his face.

Hate came in all different shades, apparently.


End file.
